3 days ago
Sunday, May 22, 2005
(From Warsaw): where Oscar and B experience Poland from within
My traveling companions are fantastic listeners! I am so indulged that I will probably never say another word about my past once I return to Madison. The other day, as we walked past the slummy Warsaw apartment building that used to be my childhood home, I thought about how much easier it is to confront certain realities about then and now when you are in the company of caring people.
Oscar and B push for the detail. They are contemplative travelers, taking detours and long pauses, creating mental chronicles and written texts, precious documents from these amazing bright sunny days.
On a walk past the University of Warsaw they ask if we can wander around campus some and as I open doors for them to buildings and auditoriums that were once my stomping ground some 35 years ago, I am reminded of how little has changed: not only do the rooms look the same, but I feel the same within them. It’s deeply disturbing to know that adolescent angst never quite resolves itself, but instead comes back again and again to remind you how small and imperfect you are in the scheme of things.
Oscar and B push for the detail. They are contemplative travelers, taking detours and long pauses, creating mental chronicles and written texts, precious documents from these amazing bright sunny days.
On a walk past the University of Warsaw they ask if we can wander around campus some and as I open doors for them to buildings and auditoriums that were once my stomping ground some 35 years ago, I am reminded of how little has changed: not only do the rooms look the same, but I feel the same within them. It’s deeply disturbing to know that adolescent angst never quite resolves itself, but instead comes back again and again to remind you how small and imperfect you are in the scheme of things.
On this bright bright Saturday afternoon, we take a local train to the village where my grandparents once lived. The train is packed and the 90 minute ride is like a scene out of a slow-paced movie, where the plot becomes less central and the essence lies in the cinematography.
The sun is relentlessly pushing its way in. Women and children are returning to their villages with purchases made that morning in the city. Others, the town dwellers, are escaping for an afternoon in the country. A child stares at us as we talk quietly in English. Everyone is aware of us, but also of their fellow travelers.
Oscar marvels at the fellowship that exists among these people. People in adverse circumstances, looking out for each other. “In this together” rather than “everyone for him or herself.” People squeeze to make room for a child. They get up and assist a woman who is feeling faint, placing her in a more favorable spot. Others open windows to help create a breeze for her. It is like that here.
The sun is relentlessly pushing its way in. Women and children are returning to their villages with purchases made that morning in the city. Others, the town dwellers, are escaping for an afternoon in the country. A child stares at us as we talk quietly in English. Everyone is aware of us, but also of their fellow travelers.
Oscar marvels at the fellowship that exists among these people. People in adverse circumstances, looking out for each other. “In this together” rather than “everyone for him or herself.” People squeeze to make room for a child. They get up and assist a woman who is feeling faint, placing her in a more favorable spot. Others open windows to help create a breeze for her. It is like that here.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
(From Warsaw): commemorative portraits
Now that my traveling buddies, Madeline and Jeremy, have left Poland to return to Madison, I am left with a task, inspired by Madeline’s wish for a commemorative photo from the trip. But which of the many should be the chosen one? Should I look for something that discloses the soul of the traveler? Should it be whimsical? Serious? Beautiful? I’m posting some possibilities. You decide.
(From Warsaw): rhymes with crostini
Krakow is to tattoos as Warsaw is to… what? One of my traveling companions remarked that the day some of us got tattoos in Krakow ranks as the day of all travel days. Looking back, I recall how a tornado ripped through those hours, as we all came to be swept away in some sort of delirium, with churches, castles, angry nuns, globes, cakes and tattoo designs swirling and banging around us in an Eastern European version of Kansas.
But what of poor Warsaw? Have we given her a chance?
Madeline and I did. Yesterday we ventured to Hest, a place where you can wax your skin away to smooth and beautiful perfection. Under the experienced eyes of Aneta.
Let not the garish colors of the entry way fool you: Aneta is no fun and games kind of woman. She is thorough. She is methodical. She will leave no hair undisturbed. She will fight the battle against fuzz and growth in the way the Polish people fought against the invasion of the Tartars: with brute force and a good dose of paraffin.*
Me, I am a novice at the entire waxing game. It’s been only months since my brows were shaped by wax dripping onto my lids. As Aneta looked at me, she said: “you are about to experience a new kind of pain.”
In the end I assured her that she is a woman of great talent. Indeed, I could not imagine a more beautifully creative approach to the entire project. From now on, no trip to Poland will be complete without a knock on her door. Poles are artists at the core and it shows, believe me – it really shows.
*what kind of waxing job are we taking about here? One has to be discreet. Let me just say – it does rhyme with crostini.
But what of poor Warsaw? Have we given her a chance?
Madeline and I did. Yesterday we ventured to Hest, a place where you can wax your skin away to smooth and beautiful perfection. Under the experienced eyes of Aneta.
Let not the garish colors of the entry way fool you: Aneta is no fun and games kind of woman. She is thorough. She is methodical. She will leave no hair undisturbed. She will fight the battle against fuzz and growth in the way the Polish people fought against the invasion of the Tartars: with brute force and a good dose of paraffin.*
Me, I am a novice at the entire waxing game. It’s been only months since my brows were shaped by wax dripping onto my lids. As Aneta looked at me, she said: “you are about to experience a new kind of pain.”
In the end I assured her that she is a woman of great talent. Indeed, I could not imagine a more beautifully creative approach to the entire project. From now on, no trip to Poland will be complete without a knock on her door. Poles are artists at the core and it shows, believe me – it really shows.
*what kind of waxing job are we taking about here? One has to be discreet. Let me just say – it does rhyme with crostini.
Friday, May 20, 2005
(From Warsaw): changes
One blogger leaves, another, along with B., arrives. Madeline is the bridge. I am the one with the yellow bag and the camera, recording and writing and not sleeping.
Everything and everyone pushes me to slow down and so eventually I do. Oscar is speaking Polish and I am listening. Czy pani mowi po Angielsku?
The sun is trying desperately to take the chill out of the air. We set out to explore Warsaw and as always, I gravitate towards the parks. There, we join the countless others who use this setting to talk. Because really, talking, in one form or other is what we, humans do best.
Out on the street, we come face to face with a large protest march. Miners and laborers demanding improved working conditions. What’s interesting is that none of the people out and about seem to care. I ask several to tell me about the march and most shrug with indifference. The police expect altercations. We leave before we’re swept away by the force of a defiant protesters.
In the afternoon some of us eat delicious salads and pastries and some of us feel obliged to clean the apartment that was left abandoned after the party of the night before. And those of us who clean, talk. Talk is good, talk is forward moving even as it relies on recounting the past.
Madeline and I move to the hotel where Oscar and B are staying. I remark on how I feel like Martha Stewart, switching residences from her estate to a more institutional setting. The new hotel is actually an old hotel and I like it for its location and clean sheets. That’s all.
We visit a gallery in the Old Town where a friend and photographer, Konrad, is displaying his work. I have one of his pieces back in the States and I have blogged about him here. In the gallery I am extremely aware of how different the light is. The sun is winning the battle against the cold, wet skies.
We sit at the Old Town Square and drink beers and black currant juice – two beverages that to me are as Polish as… apple pie.
Everything and everyone pushes me to slow down and so eventually I do. Oscar is speaking Polish and I am listening. Czy pani mowi po Angielsku?
The sun is trying desperately to take the chill out of the air. We set out to explore Warsaw and as always, I gravitate towards the parks. There, we join the countless others who use this setting to talk. Because really, talking, in one form or other is what we, humans do best.
Out on the street, we come face to face with a large protest march. Miners and laborers demanding improved working conditions. What’s interesting is that none of the people out and about seem to care. I ask several to tell me about the march and most shrug with indifference. The police expect altercations. We leave before we’re swept away by the force of a defiant protesters.
In the afternoon some of us eat delicious salads and pastries and some of us feel obliged to clean the apartment that was left abandoned after the party of the night before. And those of us who clean, talk. Talk is good, talk is forward moving even as it relies on recounting the past.
Madeline and I move to the hotel where Oscar and B are staying. I remark on how I feel like Martha Stewart, switching residences from her estate to a more institutional setting. The new hotel is actually an old hotel and I like it for its location and clean sheets. That’s all.
We visit a gallery in the Old Town where a friend and photographer, Konrad, is displaying his work. I have one of his pieces back in the States and I have blogged about him here. In the gallery I am extremely aware of how different the light is. The sun is winning the battle against the cold, wet skies.
We sit at the Old Town Square and drink beers and black currant juice – two beverages that to me are as Polish as… apple pie.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
(From Warsaw): over breakfast
[Reflections on what happens when two worlds collide. Or: how does it feel to be the only one in a room of a dozen who knows everyone and where no one else knows more than half of the others? Or: when the author of Ocean hosts a party in her old family apartment, where her American friends meet all her closest Polish friends.]
I sweated that one.
Really? I didn’t.
You weren’t hosting.
No, I was sitting back and thinking that this was the perfect tableau: books piled high to the ceiling, mountains of food everyone, people exchanging stories.
Food piled high? I know, I probably wasn’t serving it in a fast enough way.
Such fascinating conversation! Didn’t you hear it?
I was thinking that maybe mixing different worlds is not the right thing to do.
Really? If I hadn’t been more tired, you would still find me there right now.
Honestly? I like that image…
I sweated that one.
Really? I didn’t.
You weren’t hosting.
No, I was sitting back and thinking that this was the perfect tableau: books piled high to the ceiling, mountains of food everyone, people exchanging stories.
Food piled high? I know, I probably wasn’t serving it in a fast enough way.
Such fascinating conversation! Didn’t you hear it?
I was thinking that maybe mixing different worlds is not the right thing to do.
Really? If I hadn’t been more tired, you would still find me there right now.
Honestly? I like that image…
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